Reel

Tomorrow,” she says from the screen, from a wheelchair precipitously close to the edge of a pier, “is the most presumptuous word in the world, because who knows if you even get that.

And every time I make you smile, I feel like I’ve conquered the world.

Every day that ends with me still breathing has ended well.

Winston Churchill said history is written by the victors, but I would amend that to say it’s often written by liars. History is fact. You can’t change what happened, but you can edit it. People lie and leave out the truth, bend it to suit their needs.

History is so picked over, by the time you get to the tree, there’s barely any fruit left.

And if you’re lucky, you find people along the way who keep your feet on the ground—who remind you that real life matters, too.

It’s not an existential question of immortality, of living forever, but a challenge of numbered days and what we do with what we have. It’s not a string of todays that become yesterdays and aspire to tomorrow, but living like there is no guarantee. Living with an urgency to say what needs to be said, do what needs to be done. To no matter what, live with what you’ll leave behind in mind.

Better todays make better tomorrows, and if you don’t get tomorrow at least you had today.

We are artists,” she quotes softly, her eyes set on mine. “When there is no joy to be found, we have the power in our hands, the will of our souls, to make it.

Mama always said waiting for sunsets was like waiting for a miracle you knew would come,” he says, his voice graveled with the emotion in his eyes. “How happy she must be to know I finally found mine.

Boy, we all gonna die. Question is, how did you live? Did you live or just wait for death to come? Not me. I ain’t waiting for nothing.

Tomorrow...is the most presumptuous word in the world, because who knows if you even get that. Yesterday, spilled milk and old news. You can’t do nothing about how you messed up or fell short or didn’t do yesterday. Even when you mess up and make it right, it has to be done today.

Sometimes shit has to get awkward before it gets right.

When you lose your natural family by blood, the family you choose is that much dearer,

Extraordinary wants no parts of normal.

Can you just let me be sad? Can you just let it hurt? I don’t need you to tell me why it shouldn’t, or that it will be okay. I just want to not fight for a minute. Can you be here for me, with me, while I stop fighting and let myself feel this? I promise I’ll get back up, but for just a minute, let me fall.

The only thing you can do with today is make it count, because soon it will be tomorrow.

I love you, Neevah Saint.” I chuckle, emotion crowding my throat. “Or Mathis—whatever your damn name is. I love you.

Life is indiscriminately seasoned, usually not sweet without some bitter. Usually not sun without some rain.

I want you to find someone you love more than your art.

Question is, how did you live? Did you live or just wait for death to come? Not me. I ain’t waiting for nothing.

I touch my face and my fingers come away streaked with paint, smeared with pain and degradation.

Oh.” That’s the best I can do. It’s been so many years, and I hope we can put this behind us, but I hadn’t planned on confronting this particular demon for Christmas.

my very good friend who I just met tonight, Odessa Johnson.

A miracle you can count on.

I believe in economy of words. Talking too much usually means saying things I didn’t want to or shouldn’t have.

She said, to survive, don’t use your gift for shit you hate. Work in a grocery store, pump gas, pick up trash to get by before you corrupt your art.

Home is not a song, and it’s not a place. It’s people. It’s community. It’s the bond of blood and the friends we choose. It is that feeling—that knowing you are never alone.

Jazz washes away the dust of everyday life.” —Art Blakey, Renowned Drummer

live every second with the urgency of time slipping away, and savor every moment, making this life taste like eternity.